


I am still alive

by Julie_Anne



Series: The Clive papers [1]
Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: An honest try, Domestic bliss is to be expected, Dr. Freud is mentioned, Dream Sequence, Gedankenexperiment in writing, Good levels of angst, Hints of OCD, Multi, Siegfried Sassoon is mentioned, Supressing the truth, War poems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julie_Anne/pseuds/Julie_Anne
Summary: I started this full of doubts and with my heart full of mistrust for the main character. Though it took me only a few days to write all this, it was a long process. I now feel quite differently about Clive. And I am almost certain I will come back to him, though not just now.





	1. January, 1919

This is an exercise. I will be trying very hard to get inside the head of a character I do not like. To say I do not like Clive is a huge understatement. There are rats in the sewers of Lisbon right now for whom I feel more compassion than I do for Clive **“Don’t allude to that!”** Durham.

For the moment, at least, this is no AU. Canon does tell us Clive **“should never cross Maurice’s track again, nor speak to those who had seen him”**. It´s in the last paragraph of the last chapter. But the paragraph before that does imply Clive keeps thinking about Maurice to the end of his days. So, he might write about it too, I guess. I know I would.

Before this is finished, I expect I’ll have developed some understanding for the man. I mean the character. I tend to consider characters in novels as real people.

*******

January, 1919

Clive sat down at his desk and opened the notebook. It was blank, brand new, part of the half dozen or so black bound notebooks he’d bought at the beginning of the War. He’d used up two during, filled them with small sketches, little notes, bouts of despair or anger, tentative poems… He still had them, mud spattered, dirty and worn, pages soiled with rain, dirt, blood, and grease but he preferred never to look at them again. His own thin and ghostly pale hands were enough reminder of the War.

He was still having nightmares. They wouldn’t go away. His doctor had exhausted all possible therapies and there weren’t that many to begin with. In despair, he had advised Clive to write.

\- To write what? – he asked in amazement.

\- Anything you feel like. Keep a journal. Write the things you remember and the things that haunt you. Most modern therapy methods dwell on talking, but you don’t want to talk about these things, that’s plain enough to me. So write them down.

\- I was never much of a writing man… - Clive sounded doubtful.

\- Do not think too much about what you are going to write, no one but you is meant to read it anyway. Maybe it will help. Even if it comes to nothing, it cannot possibly harm you. And you can destroy it all in the end if you want.

He tried his pen on a piece of blotting paper and then, slowly, deliberately, put it to paper and wrote the very first word.

_Maurice._

He paused. Was that the very first word to come to his mind? An ink droplet fell on the page, like a tear. Clive pressed a sheet of blotting paper over it, but kept writing on that same page.

_I am alive. I am still alive. The War is over and I am still alive._

_I promised myself it was all behind me, I would never again think of you, nor remember you, nor even say your name. For some time, I kept my promise._

_Then the War came and I saw things I’d never imagined. I am not the same man._

He wasn’t. Oh, on the surface everything was the same. He was pale, thin, and tired easily, but he would be back to looking his old self again in a few months, a year maybe. The mess was inside, where it did not show, but he felt it.

He was holding his pen over the page and another droplet fell. He dried it with the blotting paper and carried on writing.

_For over four years, I feverishly looked for your name on the lists of the dead and the wounded and the missing, presumed dead. You were never on any of them but you might have changed your name. You may have been killed, injured, under a different name and I’ll never know. Every conceivable horror may have fallen upon you, and I’ll never know._

Another pause. He had never thought about that, not in so many words. Maurice might be lying in some hospital bed, wounded, blind, insane, his lungs touched with gas and slowly killing him, under some false name, and never be found again. He might have lost his memory… He might even be dead, buried under a few feet of mud in some God forgotten trench since the first months of the War for all Clive knew.

Those thoughts made him sick. The image of Maurice’s face disfigured, of his blue eyes blinded was so vivid and painful he felt his stomach turn. He held to the edge of the wooden desk, eyes closed, and drew in a deep breath. As soon as he felt steady enough, he willed the vision away.

Of course, there was also that Scudder fellow, and his name had not come up in the lists either. They might have been separated, but Clive didn’t really believe that. He knew how single-minded and determined Maurice could be.

_That boy’s name wasn’t there either, and he had no reason to change his name. Maybe you both escaped before the War. Or maybe you both made it through the War alive and well. I hang on to that belief. I hope you are alive; I hope you are with him; -_ he paused for a second, and commanded himself to write the next words _\- I hope you are loved. I could not do it anymore, but someone ought to. No one deserves to be loved more than you do._

There! He’d done it. He’d managed to accept there was love between Maurice and the Scudder boy. He’d written it down. He paused again. He was tired and his heart was full of pain, to the point of overflowing. Strangely, he also felt relieved.

He could write no more that day. The last wound he had received was still paining him, thought it had probably saved his life, keeping him out of the trenches for the last months of the War. His right arm was still rather stiff and writing became painful after a few lines.

He carefully placed a new sheet of blotting paper on the page he’d just written and closed the notebook. Then he adjusted the black rubber band that kept it shut. His first instinctive gesture was to keep it in the right hand drawer of his desk, but he did not. That notebook was very private; he would not want Anne to read it, even if only by mistake. He opened the bottom left hand drawer, which was empty, and placed the notebook inside. Then, he closed the drawer, gave the key a turn, took the key out of the lock and kept it with other keys in a small keyring he carried around in his pocket.

Clive knew he would return to that notebook. He stood up and took a couple of minutes to gather himself together, to calm down, to will Maurice’s image out of his mind. He could hear the baby upstairs, the women’s voices, and it was almost teatime. Anne would be down soon bringing Leslie to say hello to Daddy.

The image of his baby son filled him with warmth and love. Leslie was such a sweet baby, chubby and round faced, with Anne’s big dark eyes and soft fluffy curls. He recalled the warm softness of the baby’s body when he held him in his arms, the way Leslie pulled his hair, his perfect fat little hands, his gurgling bursts of laughter, the smell of lavender and baby powder. Maurice would never have children of his own, he though fleetingly.


	2. February,1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may actually consider thinking a bit less angrily about Mr. Durham. A very tiny little bit.

Clive had rapidly fallen into the routine of writing on his journal before tea. He found out it brought him some degree of solace, even if it didn’t do much for the nightmares. It did not call Anne’s attention nor was it extraordinary; he spent a good deal of time in his office, writing, reading, preparing some new speech, or something like that.

Some days he managed no more than the date on top of the page and the very first word.

_Maurice._

Some days that was enough to bring him peace.

Other days, writing would flow faster than he could actually write, and words would overlap, he’d shorthand for swiftness, and still feel the frustration of not being able to write as fast as he was thinking.

In his head, he was talking to his friend. Maurice had always been a wonderful listener. Clive tried hard to ignore it probably happened because Maurice had been so besotted he’d listen to Clive’s voice no matter what he said, just as Clive could now listen to Anne talking about how wonderfully clever little Leslie was, and catch nothing but the soft tones in her voice and the natural music of her words, without taking a single one in.

_Anne. She is amazing. I love her so much. And miraculously she loves me back. Even now, with the baby, she still finds time to love me and care for me. Anne suffered terribly when she lost the previous two babies and she’s very attached to Leslie. She didn’t even want a nanny. We hired a girl from the village to help, but Anne is always present._

_When I recall the inanities I once babbled about how wonderful it would be not to have children I could go back and kick myself! You were so sensible back then…_

He stopped, delighting his eyes on the shinning ink of each word. He had never noticed how the ink flowed from the pen, nor how bright it was while wet. So many little things, seemingly unimportant, he had never noticed! The beauty of the world!

The elegant carriage clock on his desk struck the half hour. Four thirty. The electric lamp gave a comforting yellowish light. Outside, though there was still day, it was grey and wet and windy. Clive hated the rain now. The sound of the rain, the whistling of the wind brought to him the memories of the War. He bent down and began writing feverishly.

_The War was so unbelievably terrible. No one knew it would turn out to be the way it was. We were so naïve. It was like a mechanical monster consuming men, devouring them body, and mind, and soul; never sated, always wanting more, leaving nothing but empty remains, empty shells, half-crushed and bleeding. And it was all useless in the end. Such waste!_

His shoulder was complaining; he had cramps. But he was as if under a spell and words were bursting out of him in torrents. His handwriting became shaky, clumsy, but he kept on.

_After I was wounded for the first time, I worked at a desk job for a few months. Anne had just miscarried for the first time and needed me badly, so I pulled the few strings I could. Oh, Maurice, I thought I’d go insane after the first week! The ineptitude, the arrogance, the blatant indifference for the men fighting…_

_There I was, tied to a desk during the whole Battle of the Somme, surrounded by the people who sent waves after waves of men to their deaths and dinned afterwards, and drank their Port and smoked their pipes and talked about duty and honour… It made me so sick in the end, I asked Anne’s forgiveness and begged to be sent back to the front. I would rather be in a trench, up to my knees in the mud and have rats crawling over me, than be part of the machine that caused it to be so._

_It made no difference, of course. I was but a tiny wheel in the big structure of the War. I felt better anyway._

He could write no more. The pain on his shoulder was excruciating, and he was getting nausea, he felt a tight knot in his stomach. Clive knew the symptoms, knew what they meant, and he had learned to deal with them. He closed and kept the notebook with the usual care, focusing his mind on each gesture, breathing slowly and deeply. The blotting paper sheet between the pages, the rubber band around the cover. The keyring, the key, opening the drawer, putting the notebook inside, closing, turning the key in the lock, pulling it out, keeping the keyring in his pocket. The slow, deliberate gestures helped when the memories threatened to become overwhelming.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and he saw Maurice. Not the Maurice he had seen for the last time in the garden, but the Cambridge Maurice, looking back at him with an adoring smile. A wave of the most painful longing he had ever experienced washed over him and he moaned in agony.

\- Is it a headache again, Clive?

He opened his eyes and saw Anne, standing in front of him holding Leslie in her arms. She was smiling but there was worry in her eyes.

\- I did knock, but you didn’t answer, and I was worried. Are you getting a migraine?

Forcing himself to sound casual, he answered.

\- No, it’s my shoulder. I’ve been writing too much lately. They warned me at the Hospital that this would happen. I’ll take some Aspirin with my tea, don’t worry.

He stood up to kiss his wife, and beckoned Leslie to his arms, in spite of Anne’s fears.

\- Come here, little man. – he said in his sweetest voice, as the baby held out his chubby hands – Let’s ask Clarkson to fetch an Aspirin for daddy’s shoulder, shall we?

\- Oh, Clive, your shoulder…! Do be careful!

\- No, don’t worry, it’s perfectly fine. It’s writing that gives me pain. I know it sounds strange, but that’s how it works. The doctor explained me it has nothing to do with the bone, but with muscles and ligaments. I move my fingers or my wrist and the shoulder hurts.

The baby in his arms cooed gently. Clive faced him. Leslie’s bright brown eyes were so clear and attentive. He touched his father’s cheek and tried to say a word.

\- Daddee…

Clive laughed in wonder.

\- Yes my dear, daddy…

The baby clapped his hands and repeated.

\- Daddy!

\- Oh, Clive, he said his first real word! Isn’t it wonderful?

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to, but put his other arm around Anne’s waist and pulled her closer.


	3. April,1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nope. He has relapsed. Still cannot stand him.

It was a lovely afternoon. Martha, the girl that helped with Leslie, had brought a rug and spread it on the lawn in front of the house. Leslie was sitting in the sun playing with his wooden building blocks. Clive could see him from the office through the french doors. Martha was out of his sight, sitting on a corner of the rug.

The child piled the colourful blocks haphazardly and gave little cries of pure joy when the whole thing crumbled down. He then crawled to pick them up and started again. He was almost a year old, and could actually walk a few steps on his own but crawling was still more effective while playing.

Anne approached, coming from the inside, and knelt beside the little boy. He greeted his mother with little squeaks of laughter and they both started to pile the blocks. Anne’s voice carried through the half-open french doors:

\- This is the house that Jack built.

Leslie gave her a red block and said:

\- Jack…

She put the red block on top of the previous blue one.

\- This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

Clive thought how wonderful she was. Neither his own mother nor his sister had been that kind of caring mother. He remembered Pippa, always with a maid in tow when she’d had her first child. He stood there for some time, drinking in the idyllic image of the woman and the baby playing together. The colours stood bright in the sun: the green grass, the red and white plaid of the rug, the dark blue of Leslie’s sailor suit, Anne’s rose coloured dress and the intensely coloured blocks, red, blue, green and yellow. The whole scene gave him a deep feeling of peace and contentment and the familiar rhyme lulled him almost into sleep.

\- This is the cow with the crumpled horn

That tossed the dog that worried the cat

That killed the rat that ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

He felt suddenly cold, so he rang the bell for Clarkson and asked him to shut the french doors. It was almost four, and it was time to do his writing. He felt in his pockets for the keyring, found it, opened the drawer and took out the notebook.

Then, he closed his left hand around his right wrist and stretched his right hand. He felt an immediate twinge in his shoulder. It was a bit better than the previous day. The doctor had assured him it would go away, eventually, but it might worsen on rainy or very cold days. Still, at least his hands looked less ghostly now he had gained a little weight.

Clive opened his journal on the page marked by the blotting paper sheet, and looked at the last thing he’d written there. Only one single line from the previous day.

_I was so scared!_

Fear. It was the first word to come to Clive’s mind when he tried to recall how he had begun to pull away from Maurice. Uncontrollable, cold fear. No, it had not been a touch from Nature, as he had tried so hard to convince himself. Nature had nothing to do with it. Nature didn’t care. The people he had to live with, on the other hand, did care. He had been afraid.

He leaned back on his chair. Keeping this journal was proving rather soothing but somewhat disconcerting as well. He was finding out his writing tended to be more candid than his spoken word. He might have to destroy the notebook in the end. For the time being, though, it was doing him the world of good even if he kept having nightmares.

_A cesspool. I actually thought these two words in connection with you and it made perfect sense at the time. Your last words, the last words I heard from you, had cut through my heart like a hot knife through butter. I kept myself composed, I uttered some cold inanity I can no longer recall, and it was dark, you couldn’t really see me._

_Oh, but it hurt!_ _I stood there talking nonsense, kept my eyes on the ground, on the flowers you had dropped, and I was losing you._

He screwed his eyes shut against the pain. He had no idea it would still hurt so badly.

_I can blame no one. It was my fault. I chose it. I said all those disgusting things to you. I did it all. You were right. I was keeping you on the side and caring nothing for your suffering. I was selfish. I was cruel. I lost you. It hurt like hell. Still does._

The words were down on paper. It was his own handwriting staring back at him from the page. He’d amassed the courage to write them. «It hurt like hell. Still does.» Clive smiled, a cold, ugly smile though he could not see it. He felt it so. No, it had been no courage. The words had stumbled out of his pen of their own free will. He crossed the last of them off angrily.

_~~It hurt like hell. Still does.~~ _

\- Not yet! – he said under his breath.

He tore down the whole page. His heart was thumping wildly. Tearing it down to little unidentifiable pieces or burning it crossed his mind, but he did not do it. He folded the page twice, carefully, and kept it in his coat’s breast pocket. He wasn’t ready to admit it, but it was the truth. You cannot burn the truth. You cannot make it disappear. He knew he was going to keep it, though not with the journal. That would be too dangerous. He would think of somewhere to keep it safe.

He started again on a new page.

_Have I told you about my son? Leslie. Anne chose the name. He is almost one now. He is beginning to say the first words. Oh, Maurice, I cannot begin to tell you how I love him!_

_When I went back to the front, after my last leave, Anne was expecting. I didn’t know if I would manage to come home for the birth, so we made a pact. If it was a boy, Anne would chose the name. If it was a girl, she would be called Irene. That was my choice._

_When I was wounded, I thought I was going to die. I was not afraid, and that was strange. As I lay on the mud, I kept wishing the baby would be a girl, to carry the name I had chosen for her, since I would never see her, or give her anything else. I am so selfish!_

He read the three paragraphs. They were safe enough. They brought him no comfort, though. He kept the notebook back in it’s usual place, with his routine that made him feel safe. He was becoming obsessed with little routines like that one. Sliding the keyring into his pocket, he felt uneasy. He had not lied, but he had supressed the truth and that was wrong.


	4. May, 1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is proving more troubling than I expected. Clive Durham Esq. is begining to haunt me.

_Beauty. Have you ever gazed upon beauty, Maurice? The man who has contemplated beauty with his earthly eyes is condemned to die._

_I read this somewhere. I cannot remember where. My memory plays tricks on me and I can no longer be sure of the things that drift into my mind. Maybe I did not read it. Maybe I dreamed it. I may just have made it up, I don’t know…_

_Anyway, I woke up with it this morning. Beauty. In the long run, we are all condemned to die. Better to have contemplated beauty with our earthly eyes than to have been unaware of it all our lives._

The quote, or whatever it was, had been whirling around in his mind all day. May was at its close; the days were long, warm and sweet. It had rained at dawn but Clarkson had opened his bedroom curtains to a burst of sunlight.

After breakfast, Clive had gone for a walk and had been delighted in the sight of a cloudless blue sky, the swallows drawing an elegant ballet above his head and piercing the air with their joyful cries. His mother’s roses were sparkling with droplets, and the tiniest rainbows glittered in some of them. He had strolled around the garden paths breathing in the cool morning air and the sugary scent of the wisteria flowers over his head. The lilac coloured clusters on the sides of the path were heavy with drops of rain and he’d had the childish urge to touch one to see the water drops fall to the ground and on his outstretched hand. A few ran down his arm and the cold had made him both shiver and laugh.

He was alive. He was home and it was spring. He had Anne and Leslie. He had survived. He had not been blinded, he had not been disfigured. He had kept his sanity.

\- Almost all of it… - he had murmured to himself.

His doctor would undoubtedly say he was scarred for life, but Clive was selfish enough to be glad it didn’t show.

He had been writing with the french doors open, the fragrances and sounds of spring coming through, Leslie’s laughter as he stumbled across the lawn after a colourful ball, and Anne’s voice:

\- Bring the ball to mummy, dear! Oh, my clever little man…

Clive looked down at the half-written page. Beauty. Empty scribblings about beauty. He had found it much easier lately to be careful about the words that flowed out of his pen.

Beauty. There had been a time, it seemed decades ago, when, to his eyes, Maurice had embodied beauty. He remembered their only day together, in Cambridge. He recalled Maurice lying beside him on the warm grass, his blond hair tousled, and shining golden in the green. He recalled the fair face, slightly flushed, right above his own, and the grey blue eyes much darker than usual, almost lavender, soft and liquid. How Clive had wanted to touch those smooth pink lips, trace them with one loving finger…! But it would have been wrong to do it. He had supressed that absurd desire, he had said « **No!** » out loud even though the despair in Maurice’s voice had hurt him so. « **Can’t you kiss me?** »

He could not. He would not. He had been afraid. He had not been certain he would be able to stop if he started. He had let himself be kissed a few times and that had been all. He had managed to keep a stone cold calm, while Maurice was so passionate; he had even succeeded in making his friend agree it was better that way. He felt a sharp pang of remorse.

_Once you were all the beauty in the world to my eyes. Yet, I spent three years averting your loving hands, refusing your kisses, avoiding intimacy. I believed it to be wrong._

He paused for a few seconds. Had he really believed it to be wrong?

_No, I did not. How could it be wrong if it felt so right? I was afraid. I did not want to lose my position, my comfort, my status, my family. You traded all that for a dark young lad in corduroys; I traded you for all that. I don’t regret my choice though._

_Do you regret yours, Maurice? Or is the Scudder boy as beautiful to your eyes as you were once to mine?_

He did not regret. He loved Anne. He loved his son. His home life was peaceful and he was healing. There was a certain emptiness in his heart, that much was true, and he sometimes felt his words to be hollow, his efforts to be vain, futile, but he could live with that. If only he could write Maurice’s memory out of his mind for good! Yet, he could hardly attribute any fault of that to Maurice. He hadn’t seen him since that day in August, before the War.

He closed the notebook and kept it, following his usual ritual. Then, he looked on the right hand drawer for a new notebook. He’d been to the doctor two days before. He still had nightmares, though less frequently and maybe only the War was to blame for that. He hadn’t been dreaming of Maurice, at least as much as he could remember. The doctor had instructed him to keep a dream diary.

\- It’s a new thing. There’s this fellow in Wien that has been studying dreams and finding out we may hide vital information in our dreams. He believes our brain works with symbols and metaphors… Rather interesting.

Clive was baffled by the notion.

\- What am I supposed to do then?

\- We usually forget dreams, unless one happens to wake up in the middle of it, as it happens with most nightmares. When that occurs, you write down everything you remember. Keep a notebook and a pencil by your bedside.

And seeing the puzzled look on Clive’s face, he added:

\- It may actually help, you know? The more we learn about it, the more evident it becomes that our minds work in mysterious ways. And if it doesn’t help, it won’t hurt. Try it. The journal thing has been working, hasn’t it?

\- Yes, I suppose so, in a way… I almost stopped having dizzy spells, I can eat better, I remember more things… – he paused, thinking – I’m getting a little addicted to routines, however.

The doctor gave him a concerned look.

\- What kind of routines? What do you mean, exactly, by addicted?

Clive tried to explain without giving too much away.

\- I’ve developed a kind of ritual around writing. I write almost every day, around the same hour, I have a set of procedures and gestures I feel I have to repeat in the same order… It calms me down…

\- Gestures and procedures related to the act of writing, you mean?

\- Yes, like keeping the notebook in a certain drawer, always trying the pen first on a piece of blotting paper before writing the first word, things like that.

Carefully composing a neuter expression, the doctor inquired further.

\- Do you feel strange or threatened if you forget one of those things? Do they interfere in any way with your life?

\- No, good heavens! It’s just a routine. Sometimes I go two or three days without writing and it doesn’t bother me. Last week I had no blotting paper and I tried the pen on a piece of an old newspaper.

The doctor relaxed. It was not what he had feared, even if it might develop into it.

\- It is not important. If it makes you feel awkward, though, try to break those routines. Deliberately, I mean. See how it makes you feel.

As he was making another appointment with the fellow in two months’ time, Clive thought:

«I’ve been writing down one sided imaginary conversations with a man I fell in love with some seven or eight years ago, even if I don’t even know whether he’s alive or not. How sane does that make me?»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bits in bold lettering were taken (lovingly, by me) from the 1987 James Ivory film.


	5. August, 1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm begining to feel sorry for Clive. The man is a mess!

Leslie had been pesky all day, heat bothered him and he had not been able to sleep in the afternoon because of it. But the worst of it had passed, a warm breeze was blowing now and Anne had taken him out to the garden. She was sitting under the wisteria with Leslie on her knees, telling him a story to help him eat his rice pudding. Clive could hear her clear voice and the little boy’s answers.

\- Ant then, the big wolf said: «If you do not open this door, I will huff and I will puff, and this house made of sticks will be all blown up!» But the two little pigs answered…

Leslie’s peeping voice sounded:

\- Oh, no!

\- Yes, that’s what they said. And then the wolf huffed and puffed and all the sticks flew up in the air, and the two little pigs had to run away.

It was pure peace to Clive’s heart, the sound of those voices. He had made his choice because he wanted peace. If Maurice was still alive, he would be fighting every day, his back against the wall, the whole world working to destroy him, to separate him from the Scudder boy, to crush him down. It certainly took more strength than Clive could muster. He looked down at the page where he’d only written a couple of lines.

_August, 12 th, 1919_

_I must go out more. I cannot save a political career if I bury myself in the country. Furthermore, I have no excuse for it. Not anymore. My wound his healed. I hardly feel any pain now._

August twelfth. It’s was Maurice’s birthday. He put his pen to the page again.

_I looked at the calendar and, if you survived the War and the Spanish flu, you turned thirty today. I remembered. Soon it will be six whole years since I last laid eyes on you. I thought of you every single day. I wonder if you ever think of me. Probably not._

_I’m going to town tomorrow. I must see my doctor. I already missed the last appointment I had with him. There are a few chaps I need to meet. I’ll stay for a few days at the flat. Yes, I kept it._

Writing those words brought him back the day he had received a burly envelope with the post. It had no sender but he recognised Maurice’s hand. He had ordered Simcox to leave the post in his office. He’d open it later.

He hadn’t been able to get the envelope out of his mind all day. What could it mean? What did Maurice want? He’d vanished from the face of the earth some two weeks before. The Hall women had been frantic, calling him twice a day to inquire if he’d heard anything. Then, all of a sudden, it had stopped. He had met Chapman in town twice since, by chance, and had been left with the idea that the man knew more than he gave away, but he wouldn’t say.

It had been very late, past midnight when he eventually had succeeded the privacy and quiet he felt he needed to open the envelope. It contained two loose keys, some receipts for paid bills and a short note, quite cold and impersonal.

_«I’m sending you the key to the flat. The bigger one is from the boathouse, Alec had it with him. I’ve paid what there was to be paid and instructed Mrs. Allen to clean after we’ve left. I’m sorry to disturb you. It won’t happen again. Good-bye. M.»_

Clive had kept the note. He had decided to keep the flat too. It was convenient to have a flat in town. During the War, when he came home on leave, he’d cable Anne to meet him there, so he could be reached quickly and wouldn’t have to lose precious time with her travelling to and from the country. He occupied Maurice’s old room though; he never had Anne sleeping there.

He felt some uneasiness about it. Maurice had slept in that room. Clive had been there, the night before his departure to Greece, laying in that same bed, beside Maurice, a foot apart, never touching. He had known, even back then, it had been a cruel thing to do. He remembered how he could feel the heat radiating from the body next to his, how he could almost hear Maurice’s heart drumming, how he had wanted to reach out and touch him, but had not moved a finger. His mind had been wildly working during those few minutes. Had it been half an hour? He had so badly wanted to seek comfort in his friend’s arms, to curl against him, to say he was not going to Greece, he was going to stay, they’d work out a way of being together. He had not been brave enough to buy a war against the world, in the end. « **It’s no better here. I shall go.** », he’d said.

_I don’t regret my choice, but I regret having been cruel and inconsiderate to you. I wish you could at least have departed with a fond memory of me, of our time together. As it was, all you can remember from me are cold gestures, cruel words, and callous behaviour. Hardly a match for whatever that boy of yours can give you, I dare say._

He paused, feeling that pang of uneasiness that comes to all who in their deepest heart believe sex to be dirty and wrong and, at it’s best, an unwelcome urge that must be dealt with in the dark. Against his will, though, a question began to form in his mind. What would they do together, Maurice and the Scudder boy? His own imagination couldn’t go past passionate kissing, because one thing is what one sees painted in some Greek vase and another is what actually happens, that much he knew.

Clive did not hate sex, but obtained more anguish and discomfort than pleasure from it. The actual deed was, to his mind, ridiculous. He loved Anne. There was no mistake about that. That love, though, expressed itself in temperate and rather chaste kisses; walking hand in hand; sitting side by side to talk; her head resting on his shoulder while looking at the beautiful summer sunsets, occasional cuddling… He was thankful to sex for having produced Leslie, and he hoped for more children to follow, but that was it. He felt no urge to unravel the mystery of her body under the night clothes.

Yet, the absurd question kept coming back to his mind. What could they do? Maurice had called it «sharing» and the warmth he put on the word implied it was something he would never consider living without. But, Clive thought with one of those smiles he felt ugly and blood curdling cold, Maurice had always been a queer fish and without Clive’s restraint would have been pawing him all the time. The idea gave him goosebumps but he dismissed that, willing himself to believe they arose from dislike.

_Stop haunting me. I mean it, Maurice, stop haunting me! Go away! I don’t want to know the things you do with him!_

He had written that last exclamation so vehemently the nib pierced the page. He stared at his words in dismay and breathed slowly and steadily for a few minutes to calm down. Then he crossed them off, deliberately.

_~~Stop haunting me. I mean it, Maurice, stop haunting me! Go away! I don’t want to know the things you do with him!~~ _

He would not tear the page, not this time. He was stronger than that. Oh, he was so much stronger than that! He was going to burn the whole notebook anyway. What did it matter if he wrote absurd things? No one would ever read them. It was all part of his therapy, wasn’t it? It was like an emetic, he was writing as if he was throwing up all the bad things he kept inside.

He stared in triumph at the crossed off words. He had attained some kind of moral victory, right? Some little voice inside him whispered «Wrong…» but he paid it no attention.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bits in bold lettering were taken from my 1987 Penguin Edition, and are, of course, by E. M. Forster.


	6. August, 1919, again - You never die in your dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Clive! What a terrible year he's having!  
> Well, he did deserve some of this suffering.  
> I wish I was better with dream sequences, but I did research quite a lot.

Anne had begged him to postpone that trip to London. There were still so many flu cases! He had promised to take all conceivable care.

\- I’ll never take the tube, just cabs. I’ll come back on Monday to avoid the crowded week end trains. Please don’t worry.

He kissed her and Leslie goodbye and left to catch the noon train. Baynes, the new chauffer, drove him to the station and would bring the car back. He hated driving in London and always left the car, in case Anne might need it. On the train, he revised an article he had been working on, but his mind was not on his work.

Strangely enough, he was thinking about Simcox, the old butler he had convinced to retire just before Leslie’s birth. The man made him feel uneasy. He knew too much. Clive had seen to it that Simcox kept his nice little cottage and had everything he needed. He made sure the man was so grateful to him he’d never say a word that might hurt Clive’s reputation or reach Anne’s ears. Clarkson, the new man, was much more discreet.

When the cab left him at the doctor’s, he was feeling quite lighter. The appointment was routine but was more disturbing than helpful. The physician leafed attentively through his dream diary and made a few notes on Clive’s file.

\- There seems to be a constant worry about your son. Is he unwell in any way?

He was surprised.

\- Unwell, Leslie? No, he’s a healthy child. Didn’t even have teething problems. Why?

\- In quite a good percentage of your nightmares, you lose someone who depends on you or something you were looking after. Soldiers that got killed, the dog that was stolen, the orders you lost… It looks as if you are scared of not being able to protect him. It is also very interesting that you can never say his name in your dreams, although I am not certain of what that can indicate.

\- Leslie and Anne are my main concerns, of course. The War made me think about how precious life really is, but also how fragile and ephemerous. Could it be that?

The doctor said a few banalities but he seemed to be withholding something and Clive, though curious, had the good sense not to insist. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how much his dreams gave away.

He made a new appointment for the next month and left, feeling unrestful. His political meetings were no more satisfying than the medical one had been and at five p.m. on Sunday he was dead tired and the thought of dinning out appalled him. He had had tea at the club. He would simply skip dinner and go home to rest.

At the flat he packed his bag to return home the next morning, he showered, put on his pyjamas and sat on the bed, propped against three pilled pillows, with a book. He was so worn out he fell asleep almost at once.

*******

It started like any other of his regular nightmares. He was in the trench, everything was grey and dull, the stench of rotting corpses filled his nostrils and he could hear the rats scuttling around. Then he saw a bright blast and everything went black. When he opened his eyes, he was back in Cambridge; he was his younger self again. He felt free and happy as he had never really felt, not even back then. He could see nothing for the sun was in his eyes, but he asked «Am I dead?» and Maurice’s voice answered «No love, you never die in your dreams. I’m with you. Rest now.»

It was pure bliss, Maurice was there and they were laying side by side on the warm grass. Swallows flew high above them; their fingers were entwined; the sky was blue. He rested his aching head on the beautiful young man by his side. Maurice smelled like clean linen and warm hay. He felt no fear; no shame, only love, and a great peace came upon him.

Then they were in the garden, at home, they were kissing passionately and Clive though absurdly how wonderful it was having married the love of his life. «Are we married?», he asked, but at some other level he knew that could never be. Maurice laughed, throwing back his head, and he bent to pick something from the ground. When he came up again, he was holding Leslie and the little boy fit perfectly in his arms, peaceful and sleepy, and lay his curly head on the man’s shoulder. Maurice kissed Leslie’s soft dark curls and said in the sweetest voice Clive had heard him use «You sleep, my beautiful, we will always be here for you.»

And then it all went misty and cold; Leslie woke up and whimpered. Maurice placed his big hand over Leslie’s head as if to protect him, softly saying «Hush, baby! We’re here with you, don’t be scared.». Out of the confuse mass of unfocused people Clive could sense looking disapprovingly at them, Anne appeared. She considered him with tears in her eyes. «Oh, Clive! How could you?» and she turned and started walking away. The idea of losing Anne was painful and Clive moaned. It wasn´t over though. Anne turned around and pulled Leslie out of Maurice’s arms. Clive wanted to call his son but he could not say his name and he voiced, in agony «No, not the baby, don’t take the baby! Maurice, don’t let her!», and Leslie was crying, it was such a heart-breaking sound to endure… Leaning forward, Clive let go of Maurice and held out his arms to hold his son. Maurice did not move, slowly dissolving into the mist, smiling, and saying «That’s all right, love, you go with your baby, it’s all right, it will be all right in the end…». Then a big thunder roared over his head, and he was in the trench once more…

Clive woke up startled, out of breath, drenched in sweat, tears rolling freely, a sharp pain piercing his chest, and it took him some time to figure out where he was. He had fallen asleep with the light on, propped on the piled pillows, reading a book and it had been the book falling to the floor to wake him up. The whole thing had been so intense and lifelike, the simple threat of losing Leslie had been such a torture, he couldn’t possibly go back to sleep. He got out of bed and fumbled in his coat for the pen he carried in his pocket. When he found it, he began looking for some paper to write down the dream while he could still remember it clearly enough. The notebook where he kept his dream diary was at the bottom of his travelling bag. Since he had begun his dream diary, he had discovered, from experience, it all went away very fast, and soon he’d be left with nothing but a few scraps of memory and an obscure feeling of pain. He searched the drawers in the bedroom, the bookshelves in the living room, the drawers of the little desk he had on a corner. He found some sheets of letter paper and sat down at the table, but it was all gone and all he could write was an incoherent mess:

« _Oh, Maurice, I’m so sorry, she took the baby away and I had to follow, I cannot lose him, I’m so sorry…_ » and he just sat there, silently weeping, helpless and lost, looking at the paper until his tears blurred the writing almost beyond repair. He fell asleep sitting at the table, his head resting on his folded arms, and when he woke up in the morning, he did not remember the dream and couldn’t tell how he had ended up sleeping there or what was the meaning of the sheet of letter paper he’d found smudged, damp and crumpled under his head. It was impossible to read, he could only make out Maurice’s name, so he tore it to little pieces and threw it away.


	7. September 1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more I research on the subject of WWI, the more I feel for Clive. The more I re read Forster's Maurice, the more I find how Clive is troubled. Plus, the more I advance, the more I love little Durham. He's so cute!

[Tried to «see» things, and this was the result](https://somewhereinmalta.tumblr.com/post/161018691184/just-did-this-for-the-clive-papers-and-it-does)

 

There was a small packet with the mail. From its shape, Clive could tell it would probably be a book. He carefully untied the string – the doctor had advised him to do things slowly and thoroughly as way to avoid losing his temper – and unwrapped a book. A thin book with a red cloth cover and white paper label. _The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon_. With it a card, from a man he’d met while working at a desk job during the war, one of the two or three decent chaps he’d been able to talk with. Clive had seen him in town once or twice, since the end of the War, and knew he worked for a publisher.

« _Thought you might like to read this. I remember you telling me you had met the fellow. It’s fresh from the press and rather good._ »

Poetry. He had never been very keen on poetry. It seemed such a waste of time and words. Music had always been his thing, really. Anne liked poetry; maybe she would like this. Yet, he had met the author, so he supposed he’d better give it a try.

He thought about the man, tall, handsome, serious, intense blue eyes. Strange, he thought. He had reminded him of Maurice because of those blue eyes. He took the book along for his morning walk. The garden, the wood, and the fields were gloriously beautiful. The flowerbeds were exploding in gold and purple from the irises, the autumn beauty sunflowers, and the yellow and orange dahlias. In the fields, the new haystacks shone bright gold in the autumn sun, and he sat on the dry ground, his back against the warm hay, breathing in its summery scent, and opened the book at a random page. One does not read poetry as if it were a novel, he thought. Then his eyes fell upon the page and he read.

_Does it matter? -losing your legs?_

_For people will always be kind,_

_And you need not show that you mind_

_When others come in after hunting_

_To gobble their muffins and eggs._

_Does it matter? -losing you sight?_

_There’s such splendid work for the blind;_

_And people will always be kind,_

_As you sit on the terrace remembering_

_And turning your face to the light._

_Do they matter-those dreams in the pit?_

_You can drink and forget and be glad,_

_And people won't say that you’re mad;_

_For they know that you've fought for your country,_

_And no one will worry a bit._

The poem’s words fell on him like a physical blow. For a few seconds he could not remember where he was, he forgot the beauty around him, the perfumed haystack, the warm caress of the autumn morning and he was back in Hospital, feverish and in pain, surrounded by wounded and dying men, and the nauseating smell of ether and carbolic.

He forced himself to open his eyes but he closed them back as he felt a dizzy spell approaching.

« _I’m alive._ », he thought stubbornly « _I’m alive and well. I did not lose my legs, I did not lose my sight, I did not lose my mind._ ». The dizziness subsided and he opened his eyes. The book was still there; open on the same page, the poem still staring back at him with its blunt display of words. He read a couple of verses yet again.

_You can drink and forget and be glad,_

_And people won't say that you’re mad;_

\- Damn you, Siegfried Sassoon! – he was alone and could utter these words safely – Damn you and your candour, and your honest poems! And damn you for having Maurice’s eyes!

He stood up, brushed the dust and bits of hay from his trousers and walked slowly back home, thinking he’d have to keep the book safe, to stop Anne from wanting to read it. He went in through the french doors to his office and secured the book with his journal, in the locked drawer. He was aware that he would go back to those blood and pain soaked pages. He needed to read it. Only not just now.

After lunch he took a short nap. He felt uncommonly tired and Anne insisted he should sleep for an hour or two.

\- You went out all morning. You mustn’t exert yourself like this so soon. You’ll have to keep your strength for the next election.

It was a sensible suggestion and he followed it. Anne was so sensible! He took off his shoes and stretched on the bed, and was fast asleep. Leslie woke him up.

\- Daddy! Daddy!

He heard the tiny footsteps, and sat up, still confused, staring at the little boy in a sailor suit. He looked like a miniature Clive with Anne’s eyes and something that was his alone, some kind of serene strength, strange in someone so small.

\- Mummy says you should go down to do your bit of work before tea, Daddy. – he still had a baby’s peeping voice, but each word was perfectly said.

He stood very still, waiting, while his father put on his shoes and straightened his hair. Then he held out his little hand.

\- Will you carry me down the stairs, please, Daddy?

Clive smiled and picked him up. Leslie curled up instinctively against his body, and slid his little arm round his father’s neck. He weighted almost nothing, and still smelled like a baby. Going cautiously down the stairs, Clive felt a great and warm wave of love for his son. His son. Oh, what a wonderful thing it was. What a magnificent thing he and Anne had produced! Maurice would never have that.

At his office’s door, he put Leslie down and kissed his soft curly hair.

\- I need to do my bit of work now, dear. Go to Mummy. I’ll see you both at tea.

Sitting at his desk, he performed his ritual. From the bottom of the drawer, the book looked at him in its red cover, but he ignored it and took out the notebook, leaving the book inside and closing the drawer.

_I met Sassoon, you know? In London, right before he wrote that absurd statement. He was right, of course, but it was absurd to write it down. His men called him Mad Jack, but he sounded quite sane. I heard he survived the War._

_He reminded me of you back then, in little ways. He is tall and handsome like you. He has eyes like yours, blue and luminous. But I didn’t know him all that well. He was talked about and that scared me away._

He had let fear run his life. He had let himself be scared, and once it happens, you can never be your own man again. Fear has you. Damn Sassoon and his fearlessness! Maurice hadn’t been afraid. He had gone away with the Scudder boy, he had left all behind, he had walked, willingly, eyes open, into a life of hard work, no money, no position, no friends. Damn Maurice and his blind pluck!

_Someone sent me a book of his War poems. I read one and had to stop. It’s cruel. It’s all flesh and bone as you would say, very intense. In spite of the fact that I found it cruel, and it is cruel, it is full of compassion and of desperate love. _

Desperate love. The words he was letting himself use, really! Desperate love indeed! He thought of crossing off the last words, the whole paragraph, the whole damned page. But he didn’t. It was his journal. He owned it. He would write what he wanted and that was final. He would not let fear keep running his life. He had fought in the War… Sassoon’s verses echoed in his mind « _You can drink and forget and be glad,/ And people won't say that you’re mad_ ».

Mad. Mad Jack. Mad Clive. He thought again about Sassoon’s statement. Clive might have written the same words if he had been brave enough. Or mad enough. Only he wasn’t. Not mad enough. Mad Jack. Mad Maurice.

He closed the notebook forgetting the ritual, the blotting paper, the rubber band. He threw it into the drawer, locked it and stuffed the keyring in his pocket. Outside, the autumn sun was still warm, Leslie was running in the garden, Anne was sitting on a rug with some needlework forgotten in her hands, lovingly looking at the little boy. He went to join them. He was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem «Does it matter?», by Siegfried Sassoon, was taken from http://www.poemhunter.com  
> I searched for information and images to be able to describe the cover of the first edition of «The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon».


	8. November 1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive comes to terms with his past. He seals away the war, the wounds, Maurice and the war poems. Someone new will be arriving soon.

The sound of rain beating on the windows had woken Clive up too early, and it was still dark as night. The room was cold and uncomfortable, and the house was silent. Rain. He shivered and pulled his woollen dressing gown over his shoulders, to approach the fireplace and try to rekindle the almost extinct fire. He still hated rain. It still brought back the memories of the War.

There was no need to get up. He went back to bed, pulled the covers up to his chin and tried to sleep a little more. It was useless, though. He couldn’t sleep. He took Sassoon’s book from his night table drawer, turned on the light and opened it. The poem on the page looked back at him and slapped his face with all the violence of a train.

DIED OF WOUNDS

His wet white face and miserable eyes

Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:

But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell

His troubled voice: he did the business well.

 

The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining

And calling out for ‘Dickie’. ‘Curse the Wood!

‘It’s time to go. O Christ, and what’s the good?

‘We’ll never take it, and it’s always raining.’

 

I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout,

‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out...

I fell asleep ... Next morning he was dead;

And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed.

 

Why did he insist? Each poem was like a blow. He might as well be banging his head against a brick wall. What could have possessed the man to write such things? Wasn’t it enough to have lived them? Yes, it was the truth, but who gave a damn about the truth? Nobody wanted to know. Those who had been there whished only to forget, those who had stayed behind didn’t care to know.

Why did Sassoon had to be so like Maurice? The truth… He remembered Maurice, looking at him with those truth-filled blue eyes. « **I have shared with Alec.** » Why did he have to say that? What did he expect Clive to do with such knowledge? What was wrong with those men? Why did they have to rub their truth on other people’s faces?

Clive closed the book and looked at the red cloth cover. Why red? He supposed it had to do with the truth, too. Blood red. Damn be the truth and the pain it brought along. Better to lie all your life, he thought. He put the closed book inside the drawer again. He knew he wouldn’t pick it up again for a week or two.

Now he would have nightmares again for a few nights. Cruel things, those poems. He got up, put back his dressing gown and slippers and went downstairs to his office. It was colder than the bedroom, but he could light the fire. He did and sat there, on the hearthrug, warming his hands for a while. Then, he sat at his desk, took out his notebook, mechanically going through the motions of his slow ritual. The notebook was near the end, he’d have to start another before Christmas.

_I’m still making my way through Sassoon’s poems. Every time I read one of those wretched things, I get sick for days. I suppose you revel in the truth of it all. You would. It was all about the truth with you. You scared me!_

_You must have despised me so much, Maurice. I lied to you. I lied to everyone. I lied to myself._

_But all that is over now. You’re no longer here. You are somewhere where I cannot reach you. I am almost certain that you are alive! I’d know if you died. I loved you too much, I’d know. You’ll be with that boy who gave you what I wouldn’t. You must be happy. I hope you are._

_I have my life to live. I have Anne, and she is marvellous. I have Leslie. Nothing compares to that. I have a long and hard road ahead. I still have nightmares. I cannot read Sassoon’s poetry without being sick. All that will have to go. It will go, eventually, I know._

_You’ll have to go as well. I have to let you go, if I am to keep the good there was in our friendship._

The clock struck eight and a knock on the door brought him out of the trance. He looked back at the half-written page.

\- Come in… - he responded automatically.

It was Clarkson with is morning tea. He had seen the thin strip of light under the office door and it wasn’t uncommon for Mr. Durham to come down during the night.

He had his tea. It was hot and comforting. What he would have wanted was to go on writing. It had been flowing so easily! But Anne would notice, it would have been odd. He went upstairs to shave and get dressed, then he came down again for breakfast. Leslie was sitting on his high chair; eating his scrambled eggs with a small spoon, with such beautiful manners, he looked quite older.

\- Good morning, daddy! – his voice was losing the peeping tone, it was now the voice of a little boy.

\- Good morning, dear! – Clive kissed the child’s forehead.

Anne had decided to give Leslie a modern education. No nanny, no meals in the nursery, educational toys, lots of fresh air, and parents as present as possible. Clive had agreed, and the boy was developing beautifully. Leslie was only nineteen months and was already such a mature and considerate little person! He had nothing in common with Pippa’s noisy children, who, as well as Clive could remember them, seemed to be always crying, then always having some pain or ailment as an excuse to whimper and nag, and lately always being scolded for naughtiness. Also, they seemed to drain all the energy out of every adult around them. Pippa frequently complained of being dead tired, Mrs. Durham spent most of her time in London with her daughter, and Archie regularly looked as if he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks. And the two older boys were already attending day school!

He stood by the french doors of the morning room, looking at the rain. He missed the morning walks; he’d grown accustomed to them in fair weather. The cold and the rain brought back the unwelcome pain from his war wounds. His left knee felt stiff and odd, and his shoulder seemed to have been pierced by a red-hot nail. He had swallowed a couple of Aspirin tablets with breakfast and was impatiently waiting for them to work their magic.

\- Is it your knee again, Clive? – asked Anne.

He hadn’t heard her come in; he was surprised and startled. Her voice was sweet and caring, though, and she put a special sweetness in the way she said his name.

\- Yes, the cold is bad for it. Doctor Hoper has warned me about this.

\- Don’t you want something for the pain? I can ask Clarkson…

\- Thank you, my dear, but I’ve already taken some Aspirin. It does help.

They were almost the same stature. She stood on tiptoe, put her arms round his middle and pressed softly against him, looking over his shoulder.

\- You looked so sad and lonely standing there, and looking at the rain… - she was warm, her hair tickled him in a nice way, and she smelled good.

\- Where is Leslie? – he asked, turning around to face her.

She gave him a quick, light kiss.

\- Martha is helping him build a cave with the pillows and rugs in the nursery. He wants to be a little fox in its burrow and sleep all winter. He is such a funny little boy, isn’t he?

Clive agreed with a smile. Anne looked at him, her big brown eyes soft and loving but her dark brows slightly knitted.

\- Clive…?

\- Yes, my dear?

\- Would you like to have another child?

He looked at her in surprise.

\- Right away, you mean?

Anne laughed.

\- It won’t be right away, you know? It does take a few months…

\- A few months? You mean you are…? When? How?

She laughed again.

\- Yes. I went to the doctor last week, just to be certain. He said it is all going fine, all danger has passed.

\- But when…?

\- In June. Are you happy?

He was deliriously happy. He held her very close, and kissed her. Now, he thought absurdly, he had to let go of Maurice. Anne couldn’t be made suffer for something that had nothing to do with her. Poor Anne, she was so wonderfully loving, such an understanding and reasonable wife, such a wonderful mother! It was through no fault of her own that her husband had been in love with Maurice and still hadn’t got over that. « **Why don’t you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness?** » , Maurice had asked him, all those years ago. He had been right. It was not Maurice’s fault either. It was for Clive to act.

That same afternoon, before tea as always, he wrote in his journal:

_Anne is expecting again. I’m going to have another child to care and to love. I’m going to keep that wretched red book and lock it up with this journal, and never look at them again._

_Writing has done me good, though. I’ll start a new journal. I won’t be afraid anymore. My only real remorse is that we could not part as friends. That, I regret to say, was my fault entirely. You had every right to go on with you life. I had no right to keep you hanging. That was not love; that was selfishness. I am deeply sorry._

He was. He actually was. He closed the notebook, with its blotting paper sheet inside, and carefully put the rubber band around it. As fast as he managed, he went to his bedroom and brought Sassoon’s book. Out of the top drawer, he took a large envelope and put both his journal and the book inside. Then he closed the envelope, put it inside the bottom drawer he had used to keep the journal in, closed and locked it. He took the key out of the keyring; put it in a smaller envelope, where he had written a few words « _Key to the bottom left hand drawer of my office desk. To be given to my son Leslie on his twentieth birthday if anything happens to me before._ », and secured the small envelope inside the wooden box on top of the desk. He had closed and sealed the saddest part of his past. He was still alive. He was free to face the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the bits in bold lettering are by E. M. Forster, and were taken from my Penguin 1987 edition.  
> The poem «Died of Wounds» is by Siegfried Sassoon and was taken from http://www.poemhunter.com


End file.
